Way down we go
by Sarah d'Emeraude
Summary: His hair is still sticky with blood, his blood or his friend's, he's not even sure. His mind is dizzy, fuzzy, clouded with thoughts and horribly empty at the same time. He cannot grasp his thoughts, cannot focus on anything besides his need to curl on himself and let go of everything.


**I really, really needed to write something before the mid-season finale of the walking dead. Daryl Dixon is such an interesting and complex character that I needed to write this before seeing the mid-season finale, and mostly before all the pain and tears.**

 **This is NOT a happy fanfic, even though the end is full of hope. Please, be very careful, I do not want to trigger anyone. I might continue this, too, I don't really know for now. Let me know if you think this should be a multi chapter thing!**

 **Sending you all a lot of hugs. xx**

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He doesn't know how he ended up here. He doesn't know why he's even here, to be honest with himself. He's in the dark, probably on the floor. He doesn't know. His ass his aching against the cold hard surface, and he guesses it's the floor tile of somebody's kitchen. His back is slumped against the wall, his head bent between his knees, and he cries. He's vaguely aware of how uncomfortable his position is, but he doesn't feel like moving; he doesn't feel like doing anything at all.

His hair is still sticky with blood, his blood or his friend's, he's not even sure. His mind is dizzy, fuzzy, clouded with thoughts and horribly empty at the same time. He cannot grasp his thoughts, cannot focus on anything besides his need to curl on himself and let go of everything. He's vaguely aware that the last time he'd felt this way, he had sliced the tender skin of his thigh, just on the junction of his hip, where no one would see if he ever ended up in his underwear in front of anyone. Not that he thought it would ever happen, anyway.

He remembers the feeling of the knife digging in the flesh, the pain mixing with the indescribable feeling of freedom that it gave him. He remembers the way the pain had been so different from the one he felt every time his father was beating him black and blue, until he couldn't even stand up. In his right hand, there's a sharp piece of glass, from a broken window somewhere in Alexandria. In all honestly, he doesn't remember even taking it with him. But it's there, in his hand, heavy and so light at the same time.

His eyes fall on the glass, reflecting the lights of the city. It's way past midnight, now. A few hours before, Negan had came to Alexandria. Because of him. Because of Tara, Morgan, and their foolishness. Because, blinded by their vengeance, they couldn't see past it and they completely abandoned Rick's plan. Because he thought he was doing the right thing, like always. He should have known better, though.

His father was the first to realize what a waste of time, space, money and love he was. Ever since he was old enough to stand on his own two feet, he had reminded Daryl how much he hated him. How he ruined his life, his money, his sex life. Daryl had thought better, though. Staying quiet around his old man in all circumstances, swallowing back his tears when his ma died in the fire, and realizing every damn day how much he missed her. She wasn't perfect, God knew she wasn't. She was high most of the time, didn't even know where she was for most of her life, but she was kind, too. Sometimes. Daryl was five when she died, but he missed her smile dearly, and the only comfort it gave him. Every time his father was bringing someone home -a whore of some kind, or high chicks who wouldn't even be there when he'd wake up in the morning; he would stay in his room. Quiet, starving most of the time, too. But he tried to be good. To be loved.

Then, Merle realized, too, how useless Daryl was. When the old man finally died, Merle came back. Tried to teach him how to be a man, how to hunt, how to do shit. Daryl followed. Not well enough, though. And Merle was always quick to remind him. Life with Merle was not as shitty as with his father, but he wasn't damn happy, either. Truth be told, Daryl Dixon didn't remember ever feeling happy, in his life.

Then, came the apocalypse. Shit happened. Merle died. Once, then for good. He found people, good people. People that wouldn't even have talked to him in the other life, before all the death started walking. He discovered what it was, to have a family. To call a cop -a cop!- his brother, to care for said cop's children, to be one of the first one to feed his newborn daughter. Holding her in his arms, he had wondered how could anyone ever beat their child, if the love he felt for the little girl was nothing compared to the one her father was feeling towards her. He learned to laugh. He learned to stop being a dick, mostly. He learned what it was to count on other people, or to have people counting on him. He learned how it felt to see kids, teenagers or even adults looking up to him.

He learned how it felt to be important. When Rick was seeking his advice, when Hershel asked him to be a part of the council that Rick and himself had created. But he also learned how to love. He learned how good it could feel, when Carol was smiling up at him. Sweet Carol, once beaten black and blue by her husband just like his father did to him. He learned to love her like the mother he never had, in some way. Carol was one of the most important person in his life. He learned to love Rick like a brother, Hershel like an equal, and all his friends so dearly. But he learned how much it could hurt, too. When Lori died and Rick went nuts, when he watched Hershel die in front of the gates of the prison, and even more when Beth, his sweet little Beth, died. The person he learned to love, the person he discovered as much as she discovered herself. He didn't even know if he was in love with her, at some point. He had always considered her as a little sister he never had, but could any sibling's relationship be as strong as the link they shared? When she died, falling lifeless on the floor of the hospital, he did't remember feeling that much pain and despair in his entire life. His father's lashes were nothing, nothing to the feeling of Beth's small body in his arms, while he carried her out of the hospital to burry her.

He learned what it was to grief when Beth's songs echoed in his ears for so long, after that. Somehow, a part of him, the light she had managed to light up was slowly fading away. For so many weeks on the road, starving to death, before finding Alexandria. Then, everything went so fast. And then Glenn died. Because of him. He couldn't shake away the images of his eyes popping out his damn eyeball, when he turned to Maggie, one last time.

And with his death, he was suddenly reminded of the piece of shit that he was, and always had been.

Negan had done a pretty good job at reminding him, really. But once again, it was but a pale shadow to the memory of all his friends and family dying. Sofia, the first one that really touched him. The first time he realized how involved he was with these people, the ones he'd fled with. Then Dale, the first person he had killed. Shane, even if he didn't particularly liked the guy, he stood a brother to Rick for so long, and saved them all many times, too. Lori, dying while giving birth to one of Daryl's reason to live. T'Dog, protecting Carol. Merle, too. His piece of shit of brother, whom he loved nevermind, even if he realized it too late. Hershel. Beth, his sweet little Beth, that he failed to protect. Tyreese. Then, Abraham. And Glenn. Negan could do anything to him, but it would still be meaningless compared to the pain in his heart.

Not once since the apocalypse had began did Daryl think of cutting himself again. But then, there he was. Clutching at the piece of broken glass in his hand, unaware of the blood dripping on the floor between his parted feet. People had died, tonight. People he liked, people he loved. His family. And because of him.

He chokes on another sob, bringing the piece of glass to his chest, vaguely aware of the pain when it came in contact with the skin just above his left nipple. It wasn't nearly enough to ease the pain in his heart, and clutching harder, he wonders for a split of second if he is brave enough to push it right through his heart. If he is brave enough to end it all, to free everyone from his presence, the burden that he is. That he had always been.

But then slowly, a warm grip tears his hand away from his chest, unwrapping his fingers from the piece of glass. It almost feels like a dream, when Daryl opens his eyes, sticky with tears and unfocused. His throat is dry and he lets out a whimper when the shattered glass falls on the floor in a tickling sound. He cannot feel his hand, but he feels the warm blood running down his arm. Jesus pushes a clean rag against the cuts in his palm and fingers and wraps it slowly around its injured limb, no words passing the barrier of his lips.

Once his hand is taken care of, Jesus frowns, pushing his ruined shirt aside to reveal the deep cut on his breast. Daryl knows it's bad when the shorter man's breath itch, and he briefly looks up to the hunter with worry. His eyes flicker back to the wound quickly, but Daryl still knows. He realize in haze that he's still crying, but somehow, he doesn't even care. He is broken, useless, and there is no denying it. Not even in front of the man he came to see as a friend only a few weeks ago.

"Daryl, do you hear me?"

It takes him a few moments to focus on the low voice of the man in front of him, and gasps loudly in the darkness of the room, his breath coming out in short pants. He blinks furiously, trying to focus on anything but his chest, the weight pushing against it, the anxiety running through his veins.

"Hey, Daryl, calm down. Just breathe, breathe with me."

He tries to breath, but it only comes out as a louder whimper, and more tears flowing down his face, sticking his eyelashes together as well as a few stands of hair against his cheeks.

"It's okay, Daryl. Don't try to rush it, okay? I'm here. Just breathe, follow my lead."

He only now realizes that the younger man is breathing deeply, calmly, even though his eyes are full of worry. He's got blood splattered on his clothes, too, and a few drops right above his eyebrow. Daryl wonders for a second if he's hurt. The damn ninja, always taking care of others selflessly.

"Don't rush it, Daryl" repeats Jesus, and he grabs his uninjured hand with care, putting just the right amount of pressure in his hold for Daryl to know that he can count on him without being too insistent. "We've got time."

Daryl's tongue is dry, and he can feel the faint taste of blood lingering in the back of his mouth. Still, he forces himself to speak while he's not yet breathing correctly.

"The others" he rasps, choking on the words. What of Rick? What of his family? What has he done?  
"Rick is fine, Daryl" insists Jesus. "You need to focus on yourself, alright? Please. Do this for me."

He barely registers the world. How can the young man stay so damn calm when everything's turning to shit around them? When he's the one who caused all of this, who gave Negan the opportunity to leave the sanctuary?

"My fault" he says, letting another sob escape his lips after the fatal words. "'ts my fault."  
"No it's not. Daryl, please, you have to breath. I promise you, I won't go anywhere, unless you want me to. It's up to you, all of it. If you want me gone, if you want me to stay and help you. I'm not here to judge you, Daryl. I'm here to help you."  
"Why?" he finally whispers.

He barely recognize that the scout's voice has calmed his breathing a little, and that the pain is slightly less insistent now. The wound on his chest is burning just as his lungs are, but he's breathing easier, and Jesus" lips twitch up a little.

"That's it" murmurs the young man. "That's it, that's good, Daryl. Breathe."  
"Why are you here?" ask the hunter again, fighting the urge to close his eyes and escape from the harsh reality. "Why do you care? I'm useless. I caused all of this. I'm a piece of shit, just like my father used to say."

He's so tired. Of all of this, of the pain, the sorrow, the deaths. He wishes for a moment that Negan had killed him instead of Glenn, making everyone's life easier. When Jesus' face falls, he realizes that he most certainly said this out loud.

"Because you are my family, Daryl" replies the younger man, shaking his head. "You matter. To me, to Maggie, to Rick, to everyone. You matter. And I never, ever want to hear any other stupid statement like that coming from your mouth, do you hear me?"

He sound pained, now. His eyebrows are frowned in a way that he's seen before, when he was concerned about Gregory selling them out to the saviors, or when he was worried about Maggie's state. Paul "Jesus" Rovia, always so caring.

"I wanted to kill myself" states Daryl, as a matter of fact, without preamble. The words are flooding from his mouth, now that the rush of oxygen in his lungs made his head spin a little. "I think I was gonna kill myself."

Daryl almost expects the scout to object, or quote all the stupid reasons why he shouldn't do it. But he doesn't, and he lets him continue.

"I only ever wanted to protect them. All of them" continues the hunter, his head falling between his knees once again. "And I failed again. Like I failed at the prison. Like I failed with Beth. Because I always fail."  
"No you don't" replies Jesus, tone hard. "your family has gone so far because of you, Daryl Dixon. No matter what you say, I know that. I know how much you care, and how you always try your best, putting everyone before yourself in every circumstance. And I will not let anyone tell you that you always fail, including yourself."  
"How do you know that?" he laughs, without humor. "You found me on the floor, trying to kill myself with a fucking piece of shattered glass. I'm shit, Paul. I ain't worth no damn thing."

His heart thuds loud against his hears, and for a mere moment, he realizes that he never used the younger man's first name before this night.

"You are worth something to me."

The words reverberate in the empty room, the sound of their breathing breaking the almost complete peace between the two of them. Even though it's dark, they both stare at each other, Paul looking almost as surprised as Daryl is.

"I'm not asking you to live for me" finally mutters the scout, looking at the floor. "Because this won't help. But if you ever feel the need to cut yourself… If you ever feel the need to die, Daryl Dixon, you come to me. You need to promise me that you'll come to me. Anytime, do you hear me? I need to hear that you'll let me help you."

Daryl stares, for a long time, at the man kneeling in front of him. His bright blue eyes, shiny and bright even in the darkness. His wild hair, absent beanie for once, his well trimmed beard and his pretty lips. He is bare, almost as bare as Daryl in this moment and the vulnerability he can see deep in the big blue eyes has the hunter looking down at his feet, swallowing tightly.

"Why?" he asks again, as an automatism. He is not even sure that he's waiting for an answer at this point. But somehow, Paul's voice has distracted him from his thoughts, just for a little while.  
"Because I can't lose another person either" whispers the young man, voice breaking at the end of his sentence. "I'm so tired, Daryl. And I've been there, too. Denying the fact that I needed help, because no one was there for me when I did, and because I truly believed that I did not deserve the help anyway. Knowing this feeling, this pain, and how helpless I felt, I promised to myself long ago that I wouldn't let that happen to anyone else, ever. Especially someone I care about."

And when Jesus grabs his hand again almost shyly and lets him feel everything, he nods. He can feel it, the shiver running through his body at the touch, the faint trembling of Paul's arm, how hard the young man that everyone counts on is holding back his own tears. He can see his bloodied knuckles, the dirt under his nails, and when his fingers shifts, his breath hitches a little. He feels the uneven scars on the inside of his wrists, the swelling of the skin around the old cuts and hears the light gasp that Paul lets out. In a flash, he's taken back to Beth, and a way happier time back in the farm. He's seeing the same blemishing scars owning her wrists, and her warm smile when they talked about it, after the prison.

He lets his fingers trace the scars with care, his eyes returning to Paul's.

"I need you" he rasps, fighting back tears. "I need you to help me, I need you to help me be strong for my family. Because I don't think I can do that on my own anymore."

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 **If you wanna talk further about Daryl Dixon, Paul Rovia or even Desus you can find me on twitter KeptinOnZeBridg, tumblr iamnelvenqueen and Instagram CalmYourMind_. xx**


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